Sorry so long since my last trashy tale, the inter-net connections here are slower than molasses in January. It’s hot enough to fry an egg on the seat of the motor scooter I rented. I’m mostly staying in the room w/ac and two pools at the Kumala Grand ($20 a nite!). Or at my favorite massage and warang (open air restaurant) called Callego, right on Ganesha Beach, the gay beach.

Am having a blast (no pun intended) here in Bali.

There is much to like, and then there is much to dislike here in the Kuta Beach area. As soon as you step outside the airport, you are greeted by hundreds of screaming “taksi” touts. It seemed I was the only one who knew about the official taxi counter, just 30 feet to the right, thanks to the Lonely Planet Guide. For 50,000 rupiah (five dollars!) you can get a hassle free ride to the beach resorts.

The older gent was dressed in traditional shirt and head scarf–how did he not sweat to death? Pleasant and conversational, he sadly pointed out the place where the bomb went off as we passed by on the way. The roads are very narrow, zig-zaggy, and crammed with motorbikes. He came close to my destination and had to ask a shop keeper the exact location which was 100 feet or so down an even narrower “gang” (small side alley).

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Russel Guesthouse was a hell hole. The website advertised AC, jacuzzi, and it must have mentioned 10 times “gay man massage” and “just minutes from gay nude beach”, none of which were true. I pulled the rope that rang a bell, the “Russell’s Place” sign was so faded one could barely read it. Five minutes later the driver is asking if I needed to find another place, and I should have, but finally a very cute attendant who looked about 19 answered. “Oooh jess, d-d-d-Roossell tell me yoo combing.”

He apologized for the place being so dusty, “busyness veddy veddy bad long time now.” I must have been the first person to stay there since the bombing 5 years ago. The plumbing and electrical were well below code, the AC did not work. To flush the toily one filled the red bucket and poured in by hand. He showed me where the fuse box was and which one to push to turn on the pump , a noisy machine just outside my window, if I wanted a shower.

He chased a huge hornet out of the room with a broom stick, and apologized again. I’m guessing that the owner Russel may have abandoned the place and went back to Europe, leaving the place to his young lover to look after. I barely saw him again as it seemed he was too busy messing around with his suspiciously under-age looking girlfriend who I spied/heard in the next room.

Working up a sweat just laying on the bed in front of the fan, I decided to take a walk, a long, sweltering hot, 25 minute walk to the beach.

I arrived at the famous Double 6 Road area, and my eyes just about popped out of my head. A glorious, fiery sunset was the back drop for quite the beach scene, eye candy as far as one could see. A group of god-like, rich, velvety chocolate skinned, sweat coated young men were playing a game of volleyball. A few feet away a crowd had gathered around a fire dancing brigade accompanied by drums, bells, whistles, cymbals, and various other unique Balinese musical instruments.

I fumbled around with my new digital cam when one friendly cutie pie after the next spotted me and approached. “Halloo sir, where you from? First time Bali?”

“Ka-Lee-fore-nee-ya” (Ahnald style) I stammer, forgetting about the camera for now. Not wanting to jump on the first opportunity, I chatted each one up for a bit and then politely excused myself until the next friendly but ever more aggressive cutie pie tried his luck with me. What an ego booster for a lonely middle-aged leach like myself!

After a while the attention is getting to be too much, so I throw off my sandals, stick my toes in the water, and start heading north on the beach. Past the bungee jumping tower where the occasional scream is carried by the balmy breeze, it’s just about dark by now. I feel safe because I see plenty of other solo strollers, both tourists and locals, and everyone nods or says hello in one of many international languages.

I’m giddy and giggly, feeling this trip is about to get really fun, but I’m tired and exhausted from the plane ride and the heat. I’m thinking how the hell–I mean heck, am I going to find my way back to the furnace–I mean guesthouse, when I spy yet another cutie pie in a white t-shirt and baseball cap lurking in the darkness.

He slowly approaches but is very shy. “halloo, what’s your name sir?” I asked him and he says “Ketut”.

“Too-too? Tootsie? Cutie?” I’m joking but really trying to get the pronunciation right at the same time. A bit more small talk before I figure his vibe is friendly and that he’s not going to stab me and rob me on the spot. I ask for directions back to Russel Guest House, and he offers a ride on his moto-bike. I’m hemming and hawing, so he grabs my hand and puts it in his pocket, where something large, live, and stiff is throbbing, and that’s all I need to say “OK let’s go!”

Five hours, two orgasms, a nap and 4 showers later, he says he has to go, but we make one of three more dates which he actually shows up on time for! A man of few words, this perfect gentleman was like my Man Friday come to save me from all the aggressive, almost cannibalistic touts, money-boys, trinket hawkers and tour pushers on this beautiful, paradisiacal island called Bali.